


Warpath Home

by heget



Series: Band of the Red Hand [18]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Post-War, Second Age, The Promised Comfort After the Hurt of the First Half of This Series, Veterans Adapting to Civilian Life, What do you do with a second life?, Worldbuilding, technically a Zack Fair Lives AU Fantasy Edition if you squint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:35:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23800168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heget/pseuds/heget
Summary: After Finrod's companions are reborn at the start of the Second Age, what do they do in the new eternity of peaceful paradise that awaits them?How does a culture readjust?What is Bân going to do with his second life?
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Female Character
Series: Band of the Red Hand [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/319556
Kudos: 8





	Warpath Home

**Author's Note:**

> While not _strictly_ necessary, I would not recommend reading this without reading **at least** Bân's entry in the companions at Tol-in-Gaurhoth fics, [Soldier](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695831).

Bân was at a loss for what to do with himself in his second life in Valinor, once the novelty of rebirth had worn off. Well, not entirely so - he knew whom he wished for as company, and he knew which experiences he vowed that he should stringently endeavor to avoid repeating. Getting eaten alive was something that should stay a singular experience. That particular goal was easy enough to accomplish with Morgoth banished to the Timeless Void. Crossing an ice desert should also remain an experience of his first body and have no repeat adventure with his new life. So, checklist. He wanted to spend every day with Aereth. She was amiable to this. That might have been an understatement, for she had threatened to tie a ribbon around his ankle and the other end to her bedpost so that he could never wandered away, and Bân thought that she was joking with a percentage of certainty that allowed for a sliver of doubt. His lover’s eyes when she told him this had held a manic gleam that would have frightened him on any other face. It reminded Bân of the wolf that ate him - no, he banished that thought. Not all of the servants of Nienna approved of turning his traumatic death into elements of japes to cope. Bân thought that it helped still. Aereth did not mind. But he knew it was not healing. Focus on the joy. His lover's smile, her desire for him and his company, the absence of a war to separate them. He was Aereth’s to command, yet she also had both hobbies and a profession outside of their boudoir. The knack for healing that she picked up in the final days of the War of Wrath still called to her. The patients that she treated in Valinor were far fewer, with injuries less severe, caused by accident instead of malice. Her flowers had also returned to her, as he did, and Aereth loved them both. But an occupation to fill _his_ time? That Bân lacked.

He was a soldier in Beleriand, a good one. He had been proud of the duties that he fulfilled and the people and lands he protected. His skills with a long blade were still only matched by a rare few - and of that small group of expert swordsmen, he trained one that came closest to his equal. His knowledge was that of war, and in war and combat Bân was wise. It was his skills outside of the purview of ‘soldier’ that he lacked.

Bân had no expertise in a peacetime craft, and that should have shamed him. Even a daubbler’s introduction to hobbies that could form a trade or occupy his time he lacked. Finrod was king of picking up hobbies, craftsman’s skills, and esoteric knowledge, so that while amateur he named himself, King Finarfin’s eldest son was still accounted a master at many talents. Bân was nothing like his prince. Bân had crafted his interests around those skills necessary for killing orcs and protecting lives via violence. Even his simpler hobbies of physical movements and lifting weights were practice to keep muscles and joints limber. The daily exercise routines were useful for other aspects of Bân’s life - his lover certainly appreciated the end results. But Valinor had little need of more guards to man the Pelóri Mountains. Of Bân’s friends and old acquaintances, only Angell had joined a guard. Bân could have joined the Vanyar athletes and trained for their physical competitions and festivals, but such an endeavor felt hollow to him, and Bân knew that he would soon bore of it. 

Also, his tongue refused to return to the Quenya of his early life. He spoke in Sindarin, thought in that language, and would forever feel an outsider in Valmar. Tol Eressëa pleased his ear.

Other Returned Noldor faced the same problems as Bân- whether to forgo all the martial skills that they had learned or try and preserve them. Gentling and controlling the actions of war was accomplished by transforming them into performance art. The riders already had, placing the mounted katas to music and renaming the battle maneuvers as dance. Bân watched a performance of these mounted dancers on invitation with the princes. Good padded seats with a pavilion to soften the sun and an excellent view of the performance, a circle of raked dirt for a clean and level surface, so sterile and removed from the battlefields, musicians giving the rider and horse guidance and tempo, the experience bordered on the surreal. Bân had a mountain of invitations to dances and ballets and mounted exhibitions. He knew that they would not occupy all his time. But it had been pleasant to watch the riders. Kicks that once cleared the battlefield for a clean lance strike became a dancer’s flourish. It was moving and beautiful. He could not do it.

The others had options. Some like Aglar, Edrahil, and the princes had their old lives with their families and estates to return to, even if they were finding the old lives no longer exactly fit, like a garment shrunk in the washing or having been re-tailored to fit a new style. Finrod was a prince instead of king once more, though he swore the situation did not feel so different. Edrahil, oddly enough, was the one most uncomfortable returning to his family estate, but the former steward of Nargothrond had an escape plan lined up. Edrahil was nothing if not sensibly prepared, and he had all of eternity to learn how to sail - even if it would only be a placid houseboat and a lover willing to teach him. Edrahil and Maiwë planned to impose on his family’s generous hospitality only until the hull of their new houseboat was caulked. Then, they declared, shall they move out - sooner if Edrahil’s patience expired. And the betting had already begun on how soon Prince Finrod would flee his father’s court to spend a lengthy vacation on Edrahil’s floating house. That was probably why Amarië was assisting to decorate and outfit the houseboat, knowing in advance that she would call on Edrahil and Maiwë’s hospitality.

Tacholdir had his writings and Heledir had a collaboration with Princess Findis on something much the same, if more frivolous in subject matter. Bân was no author, unless all those letters to Aereth in his previous life count, and he had no need of a pen nowadays when his beloved lived with him. 

Knowledge and wisdom pursued in words and letters never appealed to him anyway. His hometown, a tropical farming village far to the south, had little in common with cosmopolitan Tirion full of trendsetters and loremasters, so Bân had no childhood love to rekindle. He bought a copy of Tacholdir’s treatises on the Bëorian language out of loyalty to his friend, but the book sat unopened in the parlor, and Bân was almost bored enough to start reading it. 

Arodreth had merrily assigned himself as personal steward and gardener for Lady Alphen. She would either throw him out of her house on his ear or finally shove him into her bed. Or perhaps both. Old Mother Swan and Old Father Bull were as constant as tides, even if nowadays it was King Finarfin (Arafinwë, Bân reminded himself) to whom Lady Alphen advised, and Arodreth had banished from his personal wardrobe both armor and - rumor said- the very concept of shirts. If the old warrior wished to putter around a rose garden and organize the running of household tasks without tunic and wear only the most form-fitting of hose, attempting to seduce Lady Alphen with bare chest and shapely thigh, Bân would not gainsay him. Anyways, he doubted the veracity of that rumor, no matter what Consael swore. Arodreth was handsome for an elf, even if his re-embodiment had not removed the signs of wear from a long life full of strain and experience from his features, but he was never one for stylish or form-fitting clothes. The current trend in Tirion was for men to wear very snugly-fitting abbreviated garments, as simplified loose fitting gowns were trendy for women. Prince Finrod, Faron, and the half-brothers were the closest to popinjays among their cadre, and Tacholdir the only other one to closely monitor current trends. Tacholdir recently dragged a stunned and overwhelmed Faron along to the best tailor in Tirion as a fashion consultant after he received the commission money for his first published manuscript, then modeled the resulting new wardrobe for everyone at the next get-together. Therefore Bân knew what people were wearing in Tirion, even if he did not currently reside there. Back in Beleriand - before death - Arodreth rarely wore the finery befitting his station, and in this Bân was alike, content to daily wear the loose-fitting and comfortable gambesons that he wore as armor under-padding, changing only when the garments began to reek or became damaged. Now Bân had no armor, yet he could not drum up enthusiasm for new clothes.

That his baggy mortal-style trousers were apparently also in-fashion, at least among the daring youths of Valmar and Tirion, according to Consael, did mildly horrify Bân. In his youth, back when the Trees lived, the hip trend was secret swords and emblazoned shields, so this fancy for aping mortal appearance was at least more benign. Bân hoped that these two extremes in masculine hosiery did not become a political divide. Such tiresome squabbling would be a matter of course for the Noldor, and Bân would like to avoid such partisanship nowadays.

Still, the germ of the story, the implication that Arodreth was actively attempting to seduce Lady Alphen, was believable. Heledir was perhaps the only one of Bân’s cohort that had not initiated a courtship or was already betrothed or married. The Valar know this dance between Arodreth and Alphen had been long enough.

Aglar and his wife were expecting twins. Bân’s dearest friend, Fân, had not yet married his love, the shy yet strong Dondwen, but the two were living together in travellers’ inn that she ran, along with a boy named Brandostin. The former pugilist now innkeeper had taken in a war orphan during the aftermath of the War of Wrath, and until the boy’s parents were reborn, or by some miracle survived the war and found passage on the ships returning to Valinor, Brandostin was theirs to raise. Cute boy, Brandostin, Bân liked him. The ring that Fân wore was still silver, and yet he found himself already in the role of father. Of all the surprises awaiting them upon their rebirth, Fân’s won for shock value.

Fatherhood Bân had not yet discussed with Aereth. It would certainly occupy his time, but he did not feel ready for the responsibility. He ignored Heledir’s unsubtle prompting. He knew of the secret bet. During his most snide moments, he wished to shout at everyone, “Beren beat all of us to that accomplishment. And you may tell Dondwen that Brandostin does not count as her son at your own peril.”

Now that he thought upon the subject, Bân acknowledged that there would be fierce fighting among his friends on who gets to honor Beren by naming their child in reference to the hero.

Heledir probably had a bet running about that, too.

Bân rubbed his jaw in thought, still unsettled by the lack of scar as he rubbed his fingers back and forth, but the habit was too ingrained to change. He did not miss the cross-shaped scar that once marred his lower jaw, for the memories attached to it were both ugly and painful. The scar was the Soldier, and he was that no longer, yet here his hand was.

Perhaps he should imitate Arodreth and become Aereth’s shirtless garden assistant, content to continue helping his lover tend to her flowers for the rest of eternity.

Wide green eyes stared at him when he repeated this to Aereth. She giggled. “Your heart is wiser and stronger than your head, Bân. Of course you are. And you designed and built for me that cart to carry my flowers, the irrigation pipes, new tools, you fixed that pump... You do realise all the improvements you have created for my garden? Trust me, the Ivonwin are clamouring for you. It will become a hassle, when we go to visit your parents down in Southern Aman.”

Oh. _Oh_. Bân began to worry over something new.

**Author's Note:**

>  _*squishes Zack Fair's cute little puppy face between my hands and glares at him*_ What are your hobbies besides squats?
> 
> World-building notes: yes, that was dressage. And you can pry "Valinorean youth culture's fascination and appropriation of Edain culture" from my cold dead hands. The Ivonwin were elven devotees of Yavanna responsible for baking _lembas_ , but I'm expanding the term to cover her followers who focused on general cultivation as well.


End file.
